


Paints and Planets (A Doctor Who Fanfiction)

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Art, Dalek - Freeform, Gen, He might not, No beta reader, OC is a painter who knows more than she should, Sentient TARDIS, TARDIS knows all..., also has no memory, but she's got a hunch, doesn't really know how old she is, he might know, its a curious situation, originally posted on Wattpad by myself but its here now, so do the daleks..., so yeet, the Doctor is suspicious of all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21917209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: My name is Victoria Emily. I don't remember anything before waking up in an alleyway last year. All I had were the clothes on my body, a strange watch, and the burning need to create. Something. Anything.I managed to find a benevolent soul to stay in an apartment with, as long as I got my own food and didn't cause a ruckus. I got a job, got some money, and immediately spent it on brushes, paint, and some cheap canvases. I started creating.Whimsical planets, strange beings, and this one man. I only painted him once, but he's the only human I've made. I think I've seen him before, in the approximately 20 years of life I don't remember....basically abandoned at this point. I think I leapt into this not knowing exactly what I was getting into.Orphaned because it no longer jives with me, I have no interest in continuing it and I would like to reflect that.
Relationships: The Doctor & OC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story that I'm actually sharing with anyone, so be kind. However, if you see any spelling, factual, or grammatical errors, please comment where they are so I can fix them. Also, the title is temporary, but it was the only one I could think of that fit and had some nice alliteration.

I've always been fascinated by art. Museums, murals, it doesn't matter. If it's art, and it's within a 100-mile radius of where I live, I've seen it. I make art for a living, now. Everyone's fascinated by my creations. The first thing I ever made, a small painting of a planet, burned, lifeless, just sold to one of the richest people in the world and donated to a museum in Europe for 15 million dollars. 

I don't know how that happened, but it did. That painting was 9 months ago. I remember the day I finished it, signing my name and showing it to - at the time, my roommate. She was fascinated and urged me to try to sell it. I sold it for a modest 300 dollars, enough to get paints for my next work and some food. 

I kept painting in my spare time, keeping a job at a restaurant that didn't interest me. The food wasn't even that good. By the time I finished my next work, 3 weeks later, word had gotten around. My idea for this next one was an oversized pepper shaker with a whisk and a plunger flying around in space. I called it a Dalek. I don't know why, but the name seemed to fit. I auctioned off this one for a thousand dollars, to the highest bidder. 

I kept painting, making odd, whimsical paintings and eventually got my own apartment, in downtown London. Last month, I realized something was up when my Daleks attacked. The oversized pepper shakers with whisks and plungers. I was outside when it happened, looking at my watch again, wondering why I didn't want to open it. 

Everyone was screaming, and I looked up. I saw the Daleks, and they tried to shoot me. I ran and wondered how I knew about these oversized pepper shakers. How I knew. I suppose I'll never figure that out.

I kept painting. Once, on a whim, I painted a man. A man with a fez and a long coat. He stood, hands in his pockets, looking at the horizon. There was an odd police box next to him. Now, I wonder if any of these paintings I make aren't real things. If they are real, I want to meet this man.

I call him the Doctor. 


	2. The Doctor

I thought my life was pretty perfect until I met the man from the painting. 

I was out, walking, looking for a new paint shop. I knew I could look one up online. I hated doing that though. This was better exercise anyway, and I figured I got the less busy ones this way. 

I have this weird habit where I look into all the alleyways and doors when I'm out on my own. I've always had this stupid habit, and I don't know why I'm always doing it.

I looked into one alley between a cafe and an apartment building, and I saw it. The blue box. Sitting there, like it wanted me to find it. I walk towards it and touch the wood. To be fair, it could use a nice new coat of paint and some wood sealer, but it looked nice otherwise. 

I heard footsteps behind me and I wheeled around, expecting to find final retribution of my alley looking habit in the form of a robber or something. 

This was not the case.

I hesitated. 

"You're..." I struggled to form the words. "You're real! I thought I was making you up! But here you are! Right in front of me! You're real!" I was almost yelling.

"Well yes, I would certainly hope I'm real," he mused, almost to himself. "Otherwise I'd be in a real pickle, wouldn't I?"

"But... Where's your fez? You've got a fez!"

"A fez? I've never had a fez. Fairly sure they're just little hats, right? But to the point, why are you touching my TARDIS?"

"I saw it. In the alley. I was walking, and I saw it, and I had to touch it. This odd blue police box from decades ago, never been here before, and I was curious. You're acting like that's a bad thing to do."

"Never mind that, you've got an accent. American, yeah? What are you doing in London?" He changed the subject. Why's he done that?

"I live here. Little flat down the road." I can deal with that.

"Down the road is just big flats. Who are you?" 

"Well, I could say the same thing. Who are you, Doctor?" I retorted.

He froze. "How- how do you know my name?" 

"I don't know. That's what I call you, in my head. The Doctor, with his little blue box travelling the universe," I stated, thinking back to my paintings. 


	3. "You're THAT Victoria Emily?"

"I've asked once, and now I'll ask twice, don't make me ask a third time," he snarled, advancing towards me with a little metal stick. "Who are you?"

"I- I'm just a painter. Victoria Emily," I muttered, scared now. I never imagined him threatening me.

"Just a painter," he scoffs, "One of my best friends was a painter, once upon a time. No one is 'just a painter.'" He never put his stick down. "Oh, you're getting me distracted!"

He buzzes his little stick, holds it up at his eye level, then looks at me.

"You're human, no doubt about it. So human, it's almost discomforting. Practically no one is this human anymore!" He's yelling now, but he put his stick where it's not at my face and I'm not pressed against the box.

I try to sneak around him to get out of the alley, but he notices and blocks my exit. 

"What do you mean, so human it's discomforting? It's 2019 right now. No one's ever interacted with an alien in a civil manner." 

"Oh, you'd be surprised," he says softly, turning away and mumbling something to the wall.

"What's this revelation about me being human? What's so odd about me looking at an old police box?"

"Normally, I'd chalk it up to coincidence, but I know there's no such thing. You've seen the paintings, right? The ones of the Daleks and that man with the box? And that odd little planet, the one that sold for millions last month?"

"Well, of course, I know them. I made them, but-"

"WAIT," he exclaims, cutting me off. "You're THAT Victoria Emily? No wonder you're so curious about my TARDIS. Hmm."

He hands me a key. "Go on, open it."

"What am I supposed to- AH!" I exclaimed, dropping the key. "What'd you do to it? Why's it so hot?"

"Fascinating," the man muses, almost to himself, picking up the key like it's not burning hot.

"You're just being weird now. I have to go get more paints for whatever the universe wants me to paint next. I'm gonna go," I say, gesturing towards the exit, before bolting.

"WAIT," I hear behind me. "VICTORIA!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I got some odd shades of brown and gold this time. I'm gonna paint my odd pocket watch next. I set up the canvas, a decently sized square about a meter along the sides. I draw my template and start painting.


	4. The Watch

_I got some odd shades of brown and gold this time. I'm gonna paint my odd pocket watch. I set up the canvas, a decently sized square about a meter along the sides. I draw my template and start painting._

Several days and much scrutiny later, the painting's finally done. I can work on one thing pretty non-stop seeing as painting is now my literal job. I sign my name in the corner and leave it to dry. I always feel so peaceful after a piece is done. 

Peaceful enough to wash all the dishes, I think begrudgingly to myself as I tromp over to the sink. As I'm scrubbing, I think back to the day I met the Doctor. Such an odd man, travelling in his TARDIS.

Time And Relative Dimension In Space. That's what I think TARDIS stands for. It's such a beautiful machine, I painted the inside once.

I didn't think he was real. The Daleks made me suspect some of my other fantastical pieces were rooted in reality, but an immortal time-travelling alien? Ridiculous. 

I suppose the piece of my watch is done drying now. It's been an hour. Well, dry enough to take a picture. For keepsies. To look at later. 

It'll go in a pile I have in the corner. For an exhibition at a museum. These new pieces will be on display and auctioned off. 

I expect the Doctor will be at that one. I've met him now. Don't expect him to miss it, seeing as he's a time-traveller. 

"But I can't travel through time!" I yell in my flat at nothing in particular as I realize the date. The exhibition's in a few days! The museum wanted the paintings today! And it's all across London! 

*Time skip a few days*

It's the exhibition today. I rather enjoy these events. I've had measly few hours to find my dress, wear it, and get all across London. Barely enough time. I had to change in the bathroom so I could take the underground.

The museum also insisted I bring my pocket watch. The one I modelled that painting after. It doesn't open, never has, it's always been stuck. No one could figure out why. I brought it, though.

I hang out near the side of the crowd, easy to get to if someone wants to chat but no so off to the side that it's odd. I have no idea how many people are there, I think to myself, sipping my champagne. I don't see the Doctor, though I'm not surprised. I take out my watch and examine it for the millionth time. Trying to spark any memories at all. 

The hospital said it would be a good idea to keep the rusting antique when they diagnosed me with amnesia. 

I'm still looking at it when someone sidles up next to me. 

"That looks a lot like that painting over there," they say, pointing to the picture of the watch. I don't have to look up to know what they're pointing at.

"It's the same watch," I reply, flipping it over in my fingers.

"I can see that."

It's then that I notice that all the chit-chat has stopped. I look up. Everyone is staring at something near the door. I walk over there cautiously, and it's another Dalek. 


	5. Dalek??

_It's then that I notice that all the chit-chat has stopped. I look up. Everyone is staring at something near the door. I walk over there cautiously, and it's another Dalek._

I freeze in my steps once I register what it is. 

These things ravaged London a while ago. Well, a little bit more than just London. 

To say I'm terrified would be an understatement. Why here? Why now? Me? The paintings? 

Is the Doctor here?

I frantically look around for the man I met last week. He can help, right? 

He's standing on the other side of the crowd. He's looking at me, not the Dalek.

Suddenly I'm pushed forward. I stumble in my heels and my dress, falling to my knees. 

"This is the one called the Artist?" A gravelly noise comes from those damned pepper shakers. It's monotone. I don't like it.

I get up, brushing off my dress. In an attempt to muster some confidence, I take a breath.

"I suppose some people call me the artist, but I'm hardly the only one," I say looking it square in the rod sticking out of its domed head. "But what could you possibly want with me?"

"Right! No time for that," says that Doctor, waving that stick around as he jumps in the middle with me and the Dalek. "Let's take this outside, shall we? Don't want to ruin these amazing paintings of me and you and all of our space friends and that one odd watch."

His next move is to grab my hand and pull me through the door behind the Dalek and run outside. Somewhere along the way, I lost my heels. Those were my favourites. 

There are more Daleks outside. Gods help me. 


	6. It's a huge metal cat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I need to figure out an update schedule. 
> 
> The title will make sense soon enough :D

"Doctor, what's going on?" I demand as he stops and looks at all the daleks.

"Where's that watch?" he asks, not looking at me.

"I asked you a question, but it's right here. What's going on?" I demand again, exasperated.

"Good. Keep that watch. Don't lose it. Don't try to open it. But leave it at home next time, hm?" 

"You still aren't answering my question!" 

A dalek rolls right up in front of us.

"SURRENDER THE ARTIST," it drones, in its monotone voice that I will probably come to hate.

"The Artist is dead. She's been dead for thousands of years. She died in the Battle of Gallifrey," the Doctor explains, seemingly not for the first time.

"LIES. THE ARTIST LIVES. YOU KNOW WHERE THE ARTIST IS." His eyes flick towards me at this, but only for a split second, almost as if I'd imagined it.

"I mean, I suppose I do know where she is. She's buried in rubble on Gallifrey, like the rest of the Time Lords."

I decide maybe I can back away, away from this madness and the Doctor and the Daleks-

"STOP. THE FEMALE WILL STOP," the dalek says suddenly. It seems like I couldn't do that, after all. Damn it.

But before I could go back to standing next to the Doctor, he whips out his screwdriver and buzzes it in the dalek's eye?... thing? The dalek moves backwards at that, almost as if it was a cat rearing away from something in its face. That was a funny thought, a dalek being a huge metallic cat.

The Doctor starts running in the opposite direction, towards me, and he grabs my hand and pulls me along with him, running away from the museum, away from the daleks, and taking me with him. It's a struggle to keep up.

"Doctor? Where are we going now?" My voice is small, scared. 

"Back to the TARDIS," he states as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"What? Why not just back to the museum, or my flat?" 

"Because the Daleks can get in there."

"But... the TARDIS is basically just a phone box. The daleks can get in there, too." To say I was confused was an understatement.

He just looks at me. "You'll see."

A second later, we skid to a stop. He stopped so quickly I crashed into him with an oof. Once I look around I can see we're in front of an alleyway. It might be the same one as the first time I met him. 

He pulls me into the alley, and fumbles with the odd burning key. He doesn't seem affected by it, though. Curious. Maybe the TARDIS doesn't like me, and that's why the key burned?

He uses it to open the door, and gestures for me to follow him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a bunch of reformatting to make it fit Ao3's thing rather than Wattpad, which is where this is moving from.


End file.
